


Time Moves Slow

by ToxicBabes



Series: Tales of Apartment 8H [2]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Sex, Longing, Lovesickness, M/M, One Shot, Reflection, Romance, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicBabes/pseuds/ToxicBabes
Summary: A sudden assignment has Timur alone for what feels like an eternity. During this time Timur reflects on their relationship and tries his best to cope with his loneliness.
Relationships: Maxim "Kapkan" Basuda/Timur "Glaz" Glazkov
Series: Tales of Apartment 8H [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705774
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63





	Time Moves Slow

**Author's Note:**

> I started this at the beginning of February with the intention to write my headcanons of them living their domestic lives in a relationship, but then it bloomed into Timur just being ridiculously melodramatic about his boyfriend which I finished mid-March. Ever since then it's been just sitting there waiting to be published. After finishing this, I proceeded to write the sequel to this one-shot that actually has more fluff in it. I debated if I should release the sequel first but I've no clue when it's going to be finished and I just wanted to upload this one first.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> EDIT 080520: Now featuring a lovely piece of art by [@Cerosin](https://twitter.com/cerosin_bis) which 100% captures Timur in this fic. Thank you :pepelove:

Four weeks, twenty eight days, six hundred and seventy-two hours. Timur was counting down by the minute. At first it didn’t seem too bad and he found plenty of distractions, whether that be finding solace in the company of his colleagues or carrying out his own duties. As the days passed, the abrupt departure of Maxim Basuda left Timur feeling ever so displaced, like he had been torn from his grasp. He was left with this uncontrollable loneliness, a massive gaping void in his mind that wanted Maxim, only him and nothing else.

The news was sudden. A sucker punch out of nowhere that clipped Timur by the jaw and sent every coherent thought scrambled in his mind when Maxim told him that morning.

“I have an assignment in Germany with Touré, Kötz and Estrada,” Maxim mentioned out of the blue while breakfast was sizzling on the stove. He had barely spared him a glance, perhaps too guilty to bear seeing Timur’s crestfallen expression. “Four weeks. I’m leaving this Wednesday night.”

That terse tone was no stranger to Timur but it only occurred to him after Maxim left that he wasn’t happy about it either. In the heat of the moment, all Timur could manage was a choked out, “Oh, okay.” 

And the rest of the morning was spent in a steely, cold silence. While Timur continued to wonder why he was told this so late, Maxim studied him from across the table, chewing his food slowly as he savoured his time with him. The sharpness of those blue eyes seemed to cut through everything and Timur couldn’t find any words when he looked up to meet his gaze. All he was able to do was blink back at Maxim’s stoic expression and he searched desperately for the subtleties where Maxim’s emotions slipped through the cracks. 

He found an inkling of it when Maxim cleared his throat. Maxim withdrew his gaze to the table and swallowed, turned his fork several times in his hand before his lips pressed into a narrow, uncomfortable line. “Please don’t be upset,” he murmured in quiet imploration, aware of the tension between them. “I was going to tell you, just didn’t know when. It always ruins the mood, y’know?” 

Maxim’s thin lips curved into an amicable smile, the constant deadpan look on his face now flirting off a playful aura and it was enough to dispel the tension between Timur’s knitted brows, successfully easing his glumness. Timur returned the smile. “You didn’t have to keep it a secret,” he told him and the soft chastise saw a flash of guilt tinging Maxim’s relaxed grin when he nodded back. “Hm… three days. We should do something nice before you go.”

One of Maxim’s brows arched as a thought passed. “Like what?” He teased, feigning ignorance but he knew precisely what type of things were crossing Timur’s mind. 

“Dinner, maybe.” Timur gave a nonchalant shrug, unable to hide the grin growing on his face then he reached across the table to grasp Maxim’s hand. Instinctively, Maxim upturned his palm to receive the warm contact and squeezed his hand in response. “Spending time with you is nice enough.”

They spent those three days together for the most of it. As much as Maxim thought the term ‘date’ was corny, when they left work the next evening, he declared he would be taking Timur out for a date. He put on a little cologne, they both got dressed up and a reservation at a nice restaurant awaited them. It was all those minor gestures that had Timur loving Maxim a little more each day. The older man, even if he didn’t know it himself, had a specific way of pampering Timur in all these affections that were sickly, saccharine sweet. 

It made it all the worse when he had to leave.

A lingering thought at the back of Timur’s mind asked him if the gentleness in Maxim’s touch was deliberated as an unspoken apology for the suddenness of the assignment. They had made love in a slow, heated passion after returning home and it left Timur satisfied. Maxim would never leave him hanging and on this particular night, he was even more dedicated to fulfilling Timur’s needs. 

His lips left marks that would remain for the coming days, pigmented red dotted along collar bones and inner thighs. Those bruises always found themselves in the same exact places where Maxim always familiarised his lips to. He loved Timur in this precise way and he would do so again and again, leaving these imprints in intimate areas where only Timur would find during the shower as a small reminder of what they shared between them.

Maxim pressed one last kiss against Timur’s neck where his pulse had slowed to a mellow rhythm. He took in a deep breath as if to memorise Timur’s scent before he pulled away, reluctantly so as he brushed his lips against Timur’s cheek in a light peck. The warmth from his body began to dissipate when he left the bed and Timur wished he could snare him by the wrist, to pull him back in and feel the skin-to-skin contact he desperately didn’t want to lose.

The suitcase at the corner of their room was already packed, locked and ready to go. Timur listened to the rhythmic drumming echoes of water pattering off the bathroom tiles and he eyed the clock on the bedside table, watching the minute hand twitch steadily towards nine o’clock. Once the shower stopped running, the apartment became eclipsed in an uneasy silence and he waited for Maxim to come back.

Hair wet, clad in a comfortable outfit for his flight, Maxim looked towards him readily. For Timur, he hadn’t moved an inch since he was left to contemplate in bed. He was still naked, a hand behind his head and the other clutching his phone, his body sprawled on top of the mattress just as Maxim had left him in such a love-bitten mess. He allowed Maxim to take in the sight of him and accepted the kiss he pressed against his lips, sinking into Maxim’s touch with a soft sigh.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Maxim told him. His phone gave off a notification and without looking at it, both of them knew it was his lift to the airport. “Call me.”

Under a matter of seconds, he gathered his bags and he left. The door clicked several times when he locked it and Timur could count the exact amount of steps in his head until Maxim would reach the elevator, the fifty-nine seconds of restless fidgeting he would do in the small, enclosed space and how he could slip past the security guard in the lobby undetected like a gust of wind. 

Turning to switch off the lamp, Timur noticed Maxim’s pack of cigarettes which he forgot along with his lighter. At first, Timur wanted to get up and deliver them to him before his taxi left, but after some thought he decided against it. His efforts would be futile and the only outcome would be more heartache for himself. By now the taxi would be long gone and his hasty journey down to the lobby would be all for nothing. 

Even minutes after Maxim left, Timur knew these four weeks were going to be long. He reached over for a towel and gingerly cleaned himself of the leftover lube, the congealing ejaculation across his inner thigh and his abdomen where Maxim had the courtesy to pull out. He was no stranger to making a complete mess, but he had the politeness to make sure it wouldn’t take long to clean up and Timur appreciated him a little more for it.

The evening closed in faster than he expected after a brief shower. As he emerged from the bathroom part of him hoped that Maxim would still be there keeping the covers warm for him but there was no use in hoping for the impossible. Timur crawled under the heavy duvet and curled up, trying his best to ignore the abnormal spaciousness of sleeping in such a large bed by himself. After some tossing and turning, he reached for Maxim’s pillow and reluctantly accepted it as a substitute for his absence, hugging it close to his body.

* * *

It wasn’t hard to keep a man like Maxim content. All he needed was coffee in the mornings, a cigarette every couple hours, alcohol in the evenings. Although, contentment was not happiness and Timur could elaborate for hours on the complexities of what made Maxim happy. He’d pondered about it for hours while painting, it kept his brain busy and he would never tire from the act of dissecting the mind beneath Maxim’s eternally-stoic expression. His stony-faced lover had peculiar quirks and it took Timur some time to figure them out, but once he had them nailed it was a rewarding discovery.

While Maxim was mostly in charge of preparing breakfast, Timur often woke up beforehand and prepared their coffee. It wasn’t too fancy, just French-pressed black coffee as Maxim usually requested. Though the secret was, Timur always slipped a dash of sugar in it while he supplemented his own mug with some sugar and milk as well. He never told Maxim of it and found amusement when he complained the black coffee he ordered from cafes didn’t taste quite the same. 

Once they finished eating, Maxim would grab his pack of cigarettes, palm his mug and bring it to the balcony where he lit his first cigarette of the day. Hunched over the railings that glistened with dew in the wet mornings, his dark silhouette, huddled in a hoodie, looked over the black asphalt beneath their apartment block. Grey smoke coiled around his still body only to blend into the typical colour of the vast English skies. The stench of his cigarettes invaded several feet into the living room, though when Timur passed by he couldn’t help but to take in the scent which he had now associated so strongly with Maxim. He hated the smell, yet loved it so much.

Sometimes Timur observed him and wondered what he was thinking of.

Maxim’s mug sat on the far side of the counter, the same side facing the balcony door. He always left it there and if Timur had a quid for every time he forgot to wash it, he would be able to afford a ceramic mug for each morning of the year. It had a crack along the handle, a chip in its lip and it was some souvenir mug from Canada, something that had found its way into their home. It was worth virtually nothing yet Maxim refused to replace it. The maple leaf faded off a long time ago and all that remained were speckles of red pigment on the white enamel.

When Timur did the washing-up for himself that morning, he caught sight of it again and despite acknowledging it had been sitting there two days now, he didn’t wash the mug. Why? As he slipped the rubber gloves off, he couldn’t help but to feel foolish. Yet if he were to remove the mug, wash it and place it back in the cupboard where it would remain for a month, it would be like removing a part of Maxim that lingered in the apartment. 

Timur didn’t want to be alone. He let the mug and its contents stagnate on the counter.

Maxim called in the evenings when the both of them had free time, finally released from their daily duties. Sometimes he called while he was resting in his dormitory, other times the howling wind would roar down the line when he was having a smoke outside. They talked for at least an hour, about work, something obscure they saw that reminded them of one another, their loud neighbours, the dog down the hall that won’t stop barking, anything just to fill the void between them. As they did so, Timur closed his eyes and listened to Maxim’s gravelly mumbles.

In his mind, he could almost envision him in bed as well, on the other side of their great mattress. If only Timur could reach out and touch his face, stroke the pad of his thumb against the jagged scar that ran across his lip or caress the raised edges of the one that intercepted the bridge of his nose. He would press his lips against the thick ridge of healed tissue that spanned from the underside of Maxim’s left eye to the lobe of his ear. And to peer into Maxim’s eyes, watch those thick lashes bat with every slow blink. An enthralling sight, Timur could never get enough of it.

Maxim had plenty of scars- eleven as Timur counted once, not including all the small ones on his hands- and he wished he could kiss every single one of them. He could see the grouchy look on Maxim’s face, how he would pretend to be unimpressed by the pestering affections but really, he loved it. It was the natural state of his being, defaulted to looking impassive, but Timur learned how to make his expression brighten with a smile, even the tiniest of smirks.

“I miss your cooking,” Timur murmured one night, the only coherent thought that came to mind as he battled against his weariness to continue listening to Maxim’s voice. “I hate cooking. Nothing tastes right.”

The breathy sound of Maxim’s laughter had Timur glowing with an indescribable joy. “It’s only been two weeks,” Maxim reminded him in a teasing manner and in that moment then, if he had been physically present, he would’ve squeezed Timur’s nape in a reassuring manner. In ways it seemed to be a very much fraternal gesture to the outsider’s perspective but Maxim’s affections came in many shapes and forms. “It can’t be that hard, you watch me do it all the time. Just copy me.”

“It’s not the same.” Timur gave a defeated sigh. “I miss you.”

In response, Maxim hummed under his breath as if to say the same thing. There was a pause and in that silence down the line, Timur knew he was taking a drag of his cigarette. It was followed by a light exhale then Maxim cleared his throat as always. “The coffee here sucks,” he mentioned. “There’s something sweeter about the blend we use at home. I miss that.” Another pause followed. Another drag, an exhale, enough time to think. Maxim added, “And I miss you too. I miss you a lot, Timur.”

The seriousness that overtook his tone reminded Timur that Maxim held him in a special place within his heart, a position where he did not have to withhold his rare sentimentality. While it filled Timur with a warmth that radiated to every nook and cranny of his body, his heart ached for Maxim.

“Come home early then,” Timur offered as a joke. 

“Oh yeah? I’ll take the next flight home,” Maxim followed along with a small laugh. A background disturbance cut him off and Timur strained to make out Estrada’s distinct accent. Although Maxim let out a small sigh, he maintained the same jovial tone. “I gotta go, I’ll call you later- See you in a couple hours?” 

“I’ll text you when I arrive.” 

Though just as Timur went to hang up, he heard Maxim’s hurried request for him to wait a moment. He brought the phone back to his ear. “What?”

“I love you,” Maxim told him and from the languid tone in his voice, Timur could nearly see the way his thin lips curved into that cheeky smirk. Although, he was more preoccupied by his surprise at the fact Maxim would say it unprompted. 

Exhaling, Timur smiled into himself. “Love you too.”

With that, another night escaped from their grasp and they succumbed to their exhaustion at midnight. Timur had nearly dreamed of picking him up at the airport, of the windshield wipers swiping left and right as he idled in his car. It was a hopeless fantasy but a comforting one to wake up to compared to any other dream he could have.

* * *

A beam of sunlight managed to slip between the gaps in the curtains and Timur blinked awake sometime after seven, disgruntled by the light yet too fatigued to get up to close it. Had it been Maxim, the man would’ve gotten up in a whirlwind of frustration, closed it then returned to Timur’s arms where he would bury his face into the warm chest he adored for another hour. 

There was no reason keeping Timur in bed. In fact, more reason to get up. He didn’t want to cast his eyes to the rest of the large bed and be reminded of his loneliness, but the idea of making a plate of rubbery, dry eggs and lazing on the sofa for an hour didn’t appeal to him either. At a loss, he checked his phone and every part of him was hopeful and expectant of a notification from Maxim. Maxim wasn’t one for needing constant contact with Timur, although he did learn to leave a message every now and again. 

If Timur was lucky, he would receive a photo of some kind whether that be of Maxim’s boots or perhaps a photo of himself, that forced sarcastic smile, a cheeky twinkle in his blue eyes that gleamed through his seemingly deadpan expression. Whether it was him pulling a face or smiling handsomely, Timur cherished all the messages he received. 

In some ways, it was a special privilege to earn any kind of attention from Maxim. He wasn’t the type of guy to concern himself with others, he didn’t seek out human contact and relying on only himself was the essence of his being. Despite the fact that Maxim wouldn’t be caught dead taking a photo of himself, he would gladly snap a quick photo if it meant putting a smile on Timur’s face or making him laugh.

Timur took his time responding to the ‘good morning’ he received, trying to find a balance of hiding how damn _desperate_ he was for Maxim, but _hiding_ that he was concealing his neediness. Although Maxim knew him well enough, it would raise suspicions if Timur seemed too aloof. If he had all the time in the world, he would send him paragraphs on how he felt about the distance between them, but Timur settled for a short response.

_“Morning. Just got up. I miss you.”_

To his surprise, a reply came almost immediately. He wondered what Maxim was up to, though likely nothing too pressing if he was able to type back ‘I miss you too’ with one of those corny emojis he enjoyed using way too much. For a guy as stoic and serious as Maxim, it was odd that he took an affinity for occasionally throwing in an emoji into his messages. His use of them were often for the sake of being ironic or to tease but Timur didn’t hesitate to respond in the same manner, hastily thumbing in a red heart before he got out of bed.

If anything, a foolish kind of idiotic affection that came from Maxim was the most genuine. While his love for Timur was true and ardent, it was often difficult for him to find sentimentality within him. Timur understood this and he appreciated when Maxim tried. Like the roughness of his chapped lips, Maxim was equally as abrasive sometimes. If one were to dissect his behaviours, it became clear quite easily that this was a careful measure to protect himself and Timur realised over time that the silliness was a step in Maxim’s attempts to open up.

The thought of it warmed Timur’s heart. Even when they were merely friends, he felt that Maxim was able to put a little more trust in him compared to their other colleagues whom he was just as well-acquainted with. The nature of Maxim’s guarded personality led him down a lonely road, one in which he reserved all his emotions to himself. Perhaps he saw an opportunity within Timur, a place in his heart where he could be safe. And Timur provided that.

He yearned for Maxim, but life had to continue on. Timur stripped down and took a hasty shower, relieved himself of any thoughts of desire, then as he dried his body he noted his stubble had grown considerably. Towel hugging his hips, Timur wiped the steam from the mirror and examined himself, running his finger along his jawline as he inspected his facial hair. He lathered his face with an ample amount of shaving cream and hoped this time he wouldn’t be plagued by ingrown hairs. 

His skin was always sensitive. Without much need to think about it too hard, he reached for Maxim’s aftershave and patted some on. The alcohol gave a toe-curling sting where Timur nicked himself with his razor but the scent was greatly comforting. It seemed nowadays Timur surrounded himself with whatever reminded him of Maxim. His clothes, his aftershave, that damn cup. Even though it highlighted his absence, trying to pretend he didn’t exist at all sent Timur almost itching all over as if he was going through withdrawal. Though it wasn’t that he was _addicted-_ maybe a bit. 

Timur liked to believe he had moved past the honeymoon stage of their relationship where everything was idyllic and pleasant. They lived together, loved one another and found companionship in this walk of life as two beings who could last (how many days had it been?) a _while_ apart. Fights came, arguments arose and there were times when Timur was convinced Maxim was one of the biggest assholes he knew, though they always made up and resolved their problems. If something bothered them, it would be addressed. Compromises could be made and while both of them had their imperfections, behaviours could always change. 

Dynamism. Timur missed that. Over the two weeks, everything seemed to slow to a crawl. His life became stagnant dish water. At some point he questioned if he had been thrust into a time machine, transported a decade back to Russia when he lived in his cramped apartment and didn’t bother with _anything_ out of sheer laziness. There was something about Maxim’s approach to life and Timur wished he was there to nag at him for not taking enough care of himself. 

“I baby you too much, you’re leaving your laundry around like a teenager,” Maxim once joked at Timur’s tendency to leave his dirty clothes in a mountain at the corner of the room instead of the laundry basket. 

Although it wasn’t just wishing for the motivation to do mere chores. It was the perpetual push they gave one another in life. To be more assertive, to reflect and be introspective, to take responsibility like a man would, to let loose and breathe for a moment. To grow as a person, acknowledge failures and strive for more. Though even when the mood was low and there was no energy for self-improvement, they granted one another endurance. Their separation disturbed this equilibrium and it would be a blatant lie if Timur- while he was not as infatuated with Maxim as he was years ago- did not feel undeniably glum and disjointed in Maxim’s absence. 

Work was slow but bearable. The assignment had stripped core members from the small cliques formed within Rainbow, it seemed like everyone had a passing thought which they would’ve told their companion had they been present but they were forced to opt for a silent, smiling contemplation. 

Days and nights seemed to merge. Regardless of the time, when Timur wasn’t asleep he found himself either sulking or losing himself in the fumes of turpentine as he distracted himself by painting in the evenings. Ten days left, five days left, either way he couldn’t feel the passage of time and had he not been religiously counting down the days, it seemed as if Maxim had been gone for an eternity.

It was just like before. Take-out for dinner, long baths for contemplation, attempts to finish the painting he started but spending the rest of the night watching the television instead. After such a long day, Timur soaked his sore legs and nursed a generous glass of wine to himself. Although being left to his thoughts for so long eventually had his skin crawling all over and he became restless, swarmed by his own yearning.

The tub was never big enough for the two of them, but they squeezed in. Sometimes back-to-chest, sometimes sitting on opposite ends. During the times when Timur rested against Maxim’s chest, Maxim would snake his arms around Timur’s torso, a palm coming to rest on his belly and the other on his pectoral. Maxim’s face slotted almost perfectly into the crook of his neck and his prickly stubble never failed to make Timur squirm on the initial contact. Sandpaper lips dragged over collarbones, water sloshed between their heated bodies and they would soak for a while in the comforting silence despite being so cramped in the tight space.

There was a little more space when they sat on opposite ends. In a playful jest, Timur put his feet against Maxim’s chest but it wasn’t an unfamiliar position, neither was it when he submerged his upper body and rested his long legs on Maxim’s shoulders. With a brow raised, Maxim would take hold of one of his feet, press a kiss against the arch of it then in his strong, calloused hands, he massaged and rubbed the sore joints with a firm touch. It was always uncomfortable, never failing to make Timur squeamish and he would beg him to stop but Maxim was insistent it would feel good if he relaxed. And it did. Any and every ache disappeared and Timur left those baths with a deeper appreciation for Maxim.

If he had a list, Maxim’s massages would be another of the thousand things he missed terribly. 

He left the bath promptly after an hour and found an old sweater to slip on. At this stage of their relationship, there was not much distinction in who owned what garment of clothing. Given their similar frames, they shared clothes often and the only way to tell was to smell it. If the intense, sharp scent of cigarette smoke was woven into the fibres then it must be Maxim’s. Timur inhaled deeply, filled his lungs and he knew it was Maxim’s in that very moment, but he continued to bury his face against the cotton, taking in solemn lungfuls like a mourning spouse. 

Coming to his senses and feeling hot all over with humiliation, Timur cursed himself for being so _delirious_ over another man. It wasn’t as if Maxim died, he was simply away for an amount of time. Timur was aware of that from the beginning and the rational side of him became overwhelmingly embarrassed at his behaviours. Although it had nearly been an entire month and he was desperate. He put the sweater on, snagged his wine glass and set off for the living room where he planned to paint, perhaps watch some television. At the back of his head he could hear Maxim nagging at him for making the entire flat smell like paint. Timur did have the spare room dedicated to his hobby, yet he still preferred the living room much more.

He put on some evening program to fill the silence and for an hour he worked at his scenic piece, based off some old photographs he had of Japan where they had spent several weeks training in the past. As he spent some time mixing careful quantities of white, yellow and orange together to produce a subtle off-white, his mind drifted back to Maxim as it always did. The white milk-spots dotted over his fingernails, his slender, scarred fingers and how they always felt ice cold. He wished he could hold them now, feel the sharp, jagged edge of the chip in his nail and complain about it catching onto the fabric of their clothes. The callouses over his palm were smooth, well-worn leather and Timur adored the cool sensation of nuzzling his cheek into Maxim’s hand. 

Though soon the wine caught up to him, he felt too sluggish and distracted to continue working. Timur laid himself out on the sofa then he noticed the shine of Maxim’s zippo lighter sitting on the coffee table. He didn’t recall moving it there, though he must have at some point.

Timur plucked the lighter and turned the cool metal in his palm several times before flicking it open. He toyed around, spinning the flint and watching the dancing flame. The lighter was old, dinged up and clearly worn. Like his mug, Maxim always clung onto his possessions until they were absolutely broken. If Timur were to break his lighter, he was sure Maxim wouldn’t be too happy with him. 

_Don’t be melodramatic,_ Timur told himself when an idea crossed his mind, yet he carried it out anyways. He grabbed the packet of cigarettes and opened it. Where there were a few cigarettes missing was half a pack of gum, tucked in there for convenience. He took a cigarette and lit it. It wasn’t that he was addicted to nicotine, nor did he enjoy the scent of smoke but the intense association with Maxim urged him to do this. Once in a while they shared a quick smoke, whether when they were absolutely shattered after the pub or spending a brief moment together outside. Timur was alone now, but he took long drags and took the noxious fumes into every crevice of his lungs. 

The nicotine tightened his chest, his head ached in a gentle manner, the same kind when Maxim had been smoking in the car without rolling down the windows. The taste that sat heavy on the back of Timur’s tongue wasn’t pleasant, but he washed it down with the rest of his wine. It hadn’t occurred to him that he forgot to open a window, or that the smell would be in his hair and clothes, that he _just_ showered. At this point, it didn’t really matter. He was okay with smelling bad. This stench, which he always complained about (yet unknowingly loved), was beginning to fade from their apartment and he only wished to restore it into the fibres of the curtains and the cushion covers.

For a brief moment his gaze rested on the easel and he studied his work, wondering where to go next. There was so much to do, yet Timur hadn’t done much since Maxim left weeks ago. He frowned at the peeling wallpaper of the walls he hadn’t gotten around to yet. At some point they discussed painting the walls or putting new wallpaper up- rather, Timur told Maxim about it and Maxim agreed to help as long as Timur would deal with telling their difficult landlord. Timur did and for the first day he was vigilant with replacing the wallpaper but there was only so much they could do in one day. When he woke up the next morning with aches and pains in the muscles of his shoulders, he realised he could tolerate the pattern on the old walls. 

He fell asleep sometime after stubbing out the cigarette. The television shrouded the dark living room in a kaleidoscope of colours, pulsating and flashing behind the cover of his closed eyes but at this point he was too exhausted to switch it off. Cheek pressed into cushion, the thick sweater kept him warm but the hairs of his exposed legs stood at attention, uncovered by his short boxer shorts. 

The uneven surface of the sofa did not provide adequate support and he knew his back and neck would be sore in the morning but between his lapses of sleep, he didn’t want to crawl into his cold bed. He had no energy to get up and shiver into Maxim’s pillow hugged against his chest, so he remained curled up on the sofa, slightly too cold and too uncomfortable. 

A noise disturbed in the apartment. Timur fought through his weariness and squinted at the light from the television, his heart almost skipping a beat at the thought of an intruder. He reached for his phone to see it was hardly past four o’clock. Behind him were soft footsteps, shuffling and creaking on the loose floorboards but moving with a carefulness as if to be discreet. Before he could turn around, an arm looped around his neck to pull him into a chokehold.

“Maxim-“ Timur managed to squeeze out before he was overwhelmed by kisses and the fresh, powerful scent of cigarette smoke clinging to Maxim’s clothes. Instead of asking questions, Timur relaxed into his hold and tried to maintain his composure under the strong arms wrapped around him, that familiar warmth bringing back torrents of emotions through his body. “Scared the shit out of me… fuck, I missed you.”

Maxim laughed and Timur could almost feel the reverberations of his voice now that he was in person. “I can see. You were brooding,” he said and nodded at the ashes in the ashtray, the single wine glass sitting on the table and half a bottle leftover. He let Timur go and cast his gaze to the rest of the apartment, smiling into himself. “I go for a month and this place turns into a pigsty.”

“Got no one to tell me off,” Timur joked as he stood up. “You don’t remember my old apartment in Russia?”

“Course I do. It was a dump,” answered Maxim, still taking the time to study what had changed. He admired the partially-finished painting on the easel and his smile grew wider at the thought that Timur managed to return to his hobby after months of being too busy, too tired, too uninspired to even think of picking up a paintbrush. “Let’s get you to bed, hm?”

In the shock of his abrupt return, Timur could remain awake to the next evening, but he complied and followed Maxim to the bedroom. As he watched Maxim strip off his clothes, he wondered if he was dreaming because this sight was simply a delight. It would be a cruel, torturous nightmare to wake up from.

“Turns out it was only for twenty-five days, not four entire weeks,” Maxim told him and the old bed frame creaked under the collective weight of their bodies. It felt strange to have him back and Timur took a moment to shift into a comfortable position within his arms, finally finding that familiar nook where he could bury his face into Maxim’s neck. 

“I would’ve picked you up if you asked,” Timur murmured, sedated by the endorphins flooding his body at the skin-to-skin contact. How he had dearly missed the heat and firmness of Maxim’s sturdy body. He could envelope his entire body around Maxim and latch onto him like a koala, anchor him down so he wouldn’t be able to leave.

His desperation was returned with the same amount of enthusiasm. Maxim relaxed under the heavy weight of his body leaning into him and he let out a relieved sigh. “Then where’s the surprise?” He asked. Once Timur stopped wriggling his arms free from under Maxim’s body, Maxim squeezed his arms tighter around him, fingers pressing into firm muscle. “I haven’t had a decent sleep in days.”

It was difficult to remain awake in the early hours of the morning but Timur couldn’t help himself. He noted the tan on Maxim’s skin, the faint scent of sunblock and the slight greasiness of it all over his defined arms. Maxim would have to tell him what he had gotten up to in Germany, perhaps during breakfast. 

At the prospect of actually enjoying a meal for the first time in weeks, Timur had to prevent himself from pouring his heart out on the millions of tiny things he missed about Maxim. There was a long list he created and held within the deepest recesses of his soul. It would be impossible for him to truly express his gratitude as there weren’t enough words to describe them all. 

And it seemed Maxim was aware of that. He, too, felt as if their time apart allowed him too many days to reflect upon what he appreciated of Timur. However, he didn’t feel it was necessary for him to serenade Timur in sentimentality and maybe he was unable to do so. Either way, Maxim knew for definite that he wasn’t agonising by himself during those days. Hell would have to freeze over for the day where Timur could go an entire day without thinking of him.

The bedroom became cloaked in a cosy darkness when they switched the bedside lamp off. Above them, footsteps of noisy neighbours reverberated and the dog down the hall roused as always at these hours but they were occupied with the simple pleasures of one another’s presence. The ambient noise of steady breaths lulled Timur closer to sleep and Maxim reached to run his fingers through Timur’s short-cropped hair. At the nurturing gesture, Timur swore in that moment he had reached true nirvana. 

**Author's Note:**

> My Twitter is [@CompoundZ8](https://twitter.com/CompoundZ8)  
> My Tumblr is [erc-7](https://erc-7.tumblr.com)
> 
> Edit 150620: A slight sequel has been released, this time looking through Maxim's experience while Timur is away. Check it out: [Without You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24699790)


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